She led the way to a quiet corner of the drawing room, and, for more than an hour, he sat under fascinations such as he had never thought a woman possessed. It was the first good chance he had given her, and she utilized it to the full. And, presently, he, too, caught a bit of the infection. "You are outdoing yourself, this evening," he declared. "In what way?" she asked, artlessly. "In every way--in beauty." "For which I am not responsible--it was given me," with demure modesty. "In fascination," he continued. "Which is cultivated, for what it will effect; no credit comes to me for it." "All credit comes to you for it," he answered--"though I had rather believe it natural--it is too spontaneous to be otherwise." "_Merci_, monsieur," and, arising, swept him a curtsy. "No, I mean it!" he protested. "Is not fascination equivalent to coquetry?" she asked. "Fascination may include coquetry, it comprehends more, much more." "For instance?" "Ease of bearing, under all circumstances." "You think I have that quality." "To perfection, mademoiselle, to perfection." "What else?" "Knowledge of the world, and how to use it." "And what else?" she asked, her hand straying slowly over until it lay just short of his own. "Knowledge of men--and their eccentricities." "Which might mean I am a flirt," she said. He laughed softly, "Do you want me to say you are _not_ a flirt?" "No--not exactly," joining in the laugh; "but there are different sorts of flirts, you know, monsieur." "The expert and the inexpert?" "Yes--and the good and the bad, in a moral sense." "I am endeavouring to praise you, mademoiselle," he said. "I hope so--but," with a most enticing look, "one dare not take too much for granted." "You could not, take _too_ much," he replied, raising his hand in a gesture. When it came down it rested on hers. She felt him start, slightly, but he let his hand remain, and she, for her part, did not seem to notice. It was a soft hand, and a small, with a faint perfume about it, with delicate fingers and slender wrist.--His own still lingered, hers was not withdrawn. Lightly he pressed it--no answer, save in silence. He knew now that she was drawing him on--would not rebuke him, unless he went too far. His fingers closed over hers in an unmistakable caress. She did not reprove him; instead, she gazed across the drawing-room, a dreamy light in her eyes. "So you are going away, to-morrow," he said, his voice sinking lower than usual. "Yes," she replied, "yes, to-morrow." "I am sorry--very sorry--a little longer, and we might have been better friends." "It is not my fault, monsieur, that we are not better--friends," she answered, her look still distant. "Nor mine," he said. She turned her eyes upon his face, with calm sincerity. "It is God's fault, then," she responded. "So we have none to blame. But what is to hinder your coming to the Snowdens', there, we can begin afresh."